Last Minute Memories
by Xenia van Hausen
Summary: WW2 AU. When fighter pilot Alfred F. Jones signed up for the military, all he wanted was to protect his country and be a war hero. What he didn't prepare for was meeting Arthur Kirkland of the Royal Navy, or that he would forget all about war heroes and national pride if it meant Arthur was safe. But the tides turned against him on the last day they might ever see each other again.
1. Prologue

_July 1, 2012_

* * *

**Last Minute Memories **** – **Prologue:

The brigadier general slid the brown paper file forward on his desk. The blonde fighter pilot in front of him stood at attention, his blue eyes hard and expression blank, knowing full well what he would be told. He had prepared himself, but wished on the inside that it didn't have to come to this. He had thought—quite naively, in hindsight—that they would overlook it.

The both of them had done so much for their countries; for America, for Britain. Apparently, it wasn't enough.

Nothing was ever enough.

"Alfred, before I begin, I hope you understand." The ace pilot remained motionless. He heard a sigh, and then: "Your performance during the war was astounding. Marvelous." The brigadier general paused, as if waiting to see if Alfred would have a change of expression. It didn't happen. Another sigh. "So … was his. The sacrifice he made that day will never be forgotten, and we have decided to disregard his matter on this case."

Relief passed over the fighter pilot's face for a mere second, before his features hardened once again.

"I'm sorry to do this, Alfred. I really am. But I have no choice, and I can't ask for your forgiveness. We who fought beside you will never forget your courage, your charisma, or your quick decision-making skills in our toughest battles against time."

Alfred's eyes were beginning to blur, his vision becoming watery, but he held the tears in, blinking furiously to keep them from falling. He wasn't going to show any emotion. He had sworn he wouldn't**.**

"We thank you for your contributions to the war effort, and you deserve the medals awarded to you. However, after long consideration, your services have been deemed no longer necessary, or desired. You have been approved for an honorable discharge, and the public will not be informed of the true reason of your dismissal; you will always remain a celebrated war hero in their eyes. Captain Alfred F. Jones of the 78th Fighter Group, 82nd Fighter Squadron, you are hereby dismissed from the service of the United States Air Force." The brigadier general watched as Alfred stoically moved forward to pick up the envelope, and he stood up to give him one last salute. "Good-bye, Captain ... Alfred."

* * *

.

.

_To be continued..._

* * *

_**A/N: To my dear readers who have been following this story: thank you very much for all the generous, critical, in-depth feedback. I really needed that, since I don't have anyone to look over this for me. I had those few chapters written, and now I am in the process of revising this story and just tying loose ends and adding to it. Thank you for your support and patience, and I hope you will continue to read my story, despite this rocky start and possibly annoying decision. Well, until then!**  
_


	2. Chapter 1

_November 20, 2012_

___I apologize for the long wait, and I hope you'll like this new version of my story! I have general, main plot ideas planned since the beginning, but it's just the scenes and transitions that I have to work on._

* * *

**Last Minute Memories – Chapter One:  
**

The year was 1943. Alfred F. Jones had never been to England before, only heard stories from neighbors about decades ago in the Great War. As he walked down the streets of London, his eyes shone with youthful excitement—both for being outside of his small-town home back in the States, and for his deployment to fight on the Western Front of the war as a proud fighter pilot of the United States Army Air Force. He had always wanted to fight for his country, to protect that beautiful place he grew up in. To be a hero. He had always wanted to be a hero, a person others could rely on, to believe in. His father's stories of the Great War were both horrible and fascinating; men gave their lives, each for something slightly different, but gave their lives, nonetheless. Those Germans, as his dad had grumbled, were nothing but a bunch of barbarians starting wars for the heck of it. And Alfred believed him.

The inside of his lip felt raw, not realizing that he'd been biting down on skin. Alfred watched with curiosity in this new country; he was excited, yet afraid. He was surrounded by friends—allies, but he was alone. They were all here for their own reasons, and they were all fighting for something, each with a different twist. But they were merely displaced men, away from their homes, following orders yet believing they were fighting for their own reasons.

Thinking back, Alfred left home nearly four years ago. Four years since he was home in beautiful, wonderful Colorado, in his folks' countryside house, tending to the ranch.

He could still see the vast plains, the strip of river through the green land, the bathe of golden hues when the sun rises. He could still feel the whip of the wind on his skin as he rode his horse, the ecstasy of freedom as they flew through the grass across the never-ending fields.

It was not this, nothing like this. Not the crowded, gray sky, not the tall, squished buildings. Not the sounds of falling bombs, not the sight of broken families. England was weary and colorless, and Alfred had to wonder where the proclaimed majesty went.

Alfred heard the clacking of footsteps grow closer and more distinct in the noisy buzz of the streets full of chatter and movement. He raised his head in question, and two uniformed men were hurrying down the street, deep in conversation and unmindful of their surroundings.

"Now, let's calm down for a moment—"

"I _am_ calm."

"Yes, of course you are, but mon ami, those scowl lines are not going to do your skin any good. Try smiling once in a while, and maybe then you'd find a pretty—"

Alfred saw the frowning man glare at his companion, who held his arms up in mock surrender, a grimace on his face. Alfred wondered what they were so preoccupied with, as neither of them slowed their pace. He watched with curiosity, fascinated by their accents and the idea that they were _allies. _An Englishman, the Brits—Alfred hadn't truly met one before.

A 'Howdy!' was forming on his tongue when the two men brushed past him, the shorter, paler blonde clipping his arm.

"Oh, sorry lad!" the blonde officer called back as he continued his fast pace.

Alfred could only smile as he nodded and waved his forgiveness. They were already hurrying down the street, their aura commanding and confident. Alfred stared at their shrinking backs, wondering just what had made that man look…different. He sighed, stuffing his hands deeper inside his jacket, frowning for a second because he couldn't put a finger to exactly _what _was different.

He continued down the street, pulling out his wrinkled map and squinting in confusion at the interconnecting lines and dots. Where the heck was he? Second day in London and he was already lost? No, he'll figure this out…but damn, why were there so many streets? Cities made his head hurt. He did well back home, because he didn't need maps. There was his family's house, and that there was the field. Take a run, and hear the water? That's the river, clean and clear and calm. The rising sun shone a golden hue that made the grass glow a soft green, and the fresh smell seeped through everything and became a part of him and his life. But, cities…

Alfred focused back on his surroundings. It did him no good to remember his home, because he wasn't returning anytime soon. If he could even return.

Alfred sighed and looked up at the sky, gray with clouds. This, too. England was so cloudy and gloomy all the time, wasn't it? Alfred guessed he would have to get used to it. Though, he wondered if he could.

He glanced back at his map, squinting and looking at all the swirls and lines, almost fooling himself that he was actually trying to decipher the thing. He gave up and stuffed it back in his pocket. Alfred glanced up at the stores, looking for the pub he was supposed to get to. But he forgot the name. It was a weird one, a name that made no sense. Sum…sum ku-ique? Was that how to pronounce it?

He'll find it later, he decided as he chose to wander and enjoy whatever he could instead. He never knew when he'll be given his next mission; fighter pilots never knew. He could wait a month, two months, or be flying the next day. Not that he minded; flying thrilled him. He preferred to be in the sky; it felt empowered, rather than being stationed at the ground, a mere speck on the map of the bomb's targets. In the air, at least he was doing _something_. At least he could be protecting someone.

Even if he might be fooling himself.

* * *

Walking down the street, headed in the opposite direction, Arthur hid his anxiety behind a scowl and a rushed pace. Just a few days earlier, he had returned from a Portsmouth inspection. The city was suffering, but it stood. The people persevered, continuing on with their lives despite the cloud of gray ashes, despite the pile of ruins, despite the fear of another bombing. The Germans had turned their focus to airfields and political buildings, but that didn't remove the possibility of a surprise attack at the ports. Arthur's resolve hardened each passing day, strengthened by the reminder that his country did this all by itself. They were the English people—firm, stubborn, and defiant. He believed in their prime minister, believed in the people.

The man he bumped into today was not their people. "Another American," Arthur scoffed, more to himself than anything. He couldn't trust them, not even two years after they joined the war. Arthur was convinced the Americans knew nothing about war; they knew nothing of the harsh reality of it, blinded by the idea of glory and fame and ideals. They didn't know what it was like to hear, to see, to _feel _the explosions shaking their homes. They didn't know what it was like to be immersed in nothing but the chilling slap of fire, the deafening roar of planes, the shaking of the ground, the screams of mothers . . . mothers who lost their children.

The Americans didn't know. They didn't know the shame of helplessness; they didn't know the pain of not being able to stop any of it, because none of this ever happened to their country. Justice had no place in war.

Francis's voice brought Arthur back to their immediate situation.

"I find them rather charming," Francis said. It didn't take much for him to keep up with Arthur's stiff, hurried pace. He was used to it. The Brit lost himself in his thoughts frequently, and Francis learned the little indications: Arthur's forehead would crease, and his scowl would grow sharper. His eyes would be focused, but not on anything in front of him.

A breath of air blew out Arthur's nose, a short "hmmph" as the lines on his forehead remained. Where were the _charming _Americans two years ago? Only now were they starting to trickle in. Britain didn't need them anymore. Arthur could've stepped on his own foot in frustration. Even as he thought that, he knew that he was not fooling anyone. Britain might not be able to hold on much longer. "You're certain that Eliza received something?"

Francis shrugged. "She left me a note to pay her a visit."

Arthur's vision flickered back in front. It had been seven months since they last heard from him, and it wasn't much. He knew it plagued Eliza's mind, despite her skill in hiding it. But her reason was not the same as Arthur's. No, his was entirely selfish, while hers was definitely selfless in every way. Arthur pushed away the guilt pooling in his stomach, justifying himself that there was no other way. This was for the country, for them all. This was war.

War had no rules.

"Listen, Arthur," Francis began, "it's not your fault. Nor is this your responsibility. We're all fighting for something."

"Fighting for something…huh," Arthur echoed. A dry chuckle left his lips. What was he fighting for? He didn't have anyone to protect. He didn't have such strong beliefs to push him forward. He didn't have a home to return to. "We can't let this country fall."

Francis glanced over, but said nothing. There was a part of Arthur he would never know. The part that would ruin him one day, but it was also the one thing that made Arthur rise into a commanding position so quickly. He had nothing to lose but his life.

And when a man only has that left, he becomes a formidable enemy.

"Arthur, I know we're at war. But you need to stop being so tense. You'll die from exhaustion before the Germans even have a chance at you."

"I'm fine," Arthur replied curtly. He stopped, taking in a deep breath as they stood in front of the pub, hearing the chatter and clinking of glass permeate through the door. "Let's hope we get something this time."

Francis didn't reply, but he didn't need to. Following behind Arthur, they walked into the busy pub, its name hanging above the door:

_Suum Cuique_

The warm, bittersweet smell of liquor filled their noses and they could feel the heat from the people occupying the pub.

Eliza, in her usual green dress and white apron, poured drinks at the counter, a large smile on her face. She set the liquor down and looked up, her brown hair out of her face as it was tied back with a white kerchief.

"Welcome, Arthur, Francis!" Her words were light, and Arthur wondered how she did it. How she was able to stay so cheerful despite everything. The war, her home, and her . . . childhood friend. If that was even the right word.

Arthur set his cap down and settled onto the stool. Francis did the same, albeit much more relaxed and carefree.

"Sure is busy around here," Francis commented, his lips tugged into a smile.

"Oh, it's been like this for a while," Eliza said. She grabbed two glasses and placed them in front of the two officers. "The usual?" The wall behind her was covered with liquor bottles, lining three rows, one on top of the other. A closed wooden door to the side led to her quarters, as she lived above the pub. It was much more convenient, she said, and she didn't have anywhere else to go, anyway.

"Yes, please," Arthur replied.

Eliza chuckled at the ever-present formality in Arthur's demeanor, and reached for the bottles of gin and brandy. She popped the cork off a bottle and poured each of them their liquor.

"See them boys over there?" Eliza nodded in the direction of a table on the left, six men chatting and laughing. "American pilots. Best of the best."

Arthur looked over his shoulder, and he could tell immediately that they were, no doubt, American. They had an overabundance of confidence, they spoke louder than the surrounding costumers, and they were too cheerful to be in a war. Uninterested, Arthur turned his head around and sipped his gin, controlling himself or else he would grow irritated. "Can't listen to orders, that's what they are. Americans think they own the world."

Francis felt himself smile midway through drinking his brandy.

Eliza laughed as she shook her head. "They're not bad people."

"No," Arthur said. "I'm not saying they are." _Just ignorant._ Arthur brought his drink to his lips, ready to ask Eliza about the news. He felt impatient, but he hid it under his indifferent, serious demeanor.

"How's business been, Eliza?" Francis asked, leaning an elbow onto the table. Arthur noticed how he appeared relaxed, but his eyes were carefully scanning the room. Despite how annoying Francis chose to be, when it came down to it, Arthur trusted the Frenchman.

"Oh, the usual," she said, wiping the last part of the glass in her hand. She set it down and looked at Francis. "But I did manage to get a new import from the Continent a few days ago. Thought you might be interested."

Francis smiled. "Yes, and I'm sure Arthur here would like some, as well." He clapped Arthur on the back, earning himself a brief glare. Even so, Arthur couldn't retort as he definitely was itching to jump out of his seat and hurry to their business.

Eliza chuckled at the exchange, and said, "Well, I'll take advantage of this and ask the two of you men to help me unpack the crate. It's quite heavy, and I'm still just a woman, after all."

Arthur wanted to scoff at her words. Any man who knew Eliza well would hesitate even to start an argument with her. Chances were, she could beat most of the men in a fight. Arthur didn't know much about her, but he wasn't one to pry. She emigrated from Hungary nearly eight years ago, a young woman all by herself, and Arthur had to marvel at her courage at times. He knew next to nothing about her family, or if she even stayed in contact with them. He never asked. Maybe he was trying not to be nosy.

Maybe it was because he didn't want her asking about his family in turn.

"Okay, you two, come help me out." She wiped her hands on her white apron and lifted the wooden countertop door on the side to get out. Her keys jingled as they collided together. Arthur and Francis slipped off their stools as Eliza unlocked the door to her quarters. They followed behind her, and Francis closed the door behind him as precaution. They climbed the stairs in silence, sense heightened and wary.

Once they reached the small living room, Eliza said, "All right, boys, let me grab it." She disappeared into her room. Arthur and Francis stood in the middle of the crowded area, with Arthur lost in thought and Francis looking around in slight curiosity.

Arthur felt tense, and he unconsciously fisted his hands. The silence thrummed in his ear, and he almost jumped when Eliza stepped out and closed her door.

"Okay, here it is."

Arthur slowly exhaled the breath he forgot he was holding, and turned to Eliza.

* * *

Standing in front of the pub, Alfred looked up and read, "Suhm…Ku-eek." His face scrunched in the effort of trying to make out what the words were. What a peculiar name. He shrugged and went in, and was immediately shrouded in the noisy, euphoric atmosphere. It had taken him forever to find the pub, going in circles a few times—even with the help of some civilians—before he finally got here. It wasn't his fault that the streets and people all looked the same. The pub was half-full, with enough people to keep the bartenders busy, but just enough that it wasn't overly stuffy and crowded.

"Alfred! There you are!" A table of six American uniformed men sat slightly displaced from the middle of the pub, and Alfred grinned as he strolled over to his fellow pilots. They were the closest thing to kin he had now, and a man would go crazy if he didn't have anyone to complain with once in a while. Alfred glanced around, and was mildly surprised at how many American officers there were, drinking and chatting. He realized that there were more military personnel stationed in England than he had first thought. He wondered briefly if they were going to be sent on a mission soon . . .

The noise of chatter covered the scrape of wood on wood as Alfred pulled a chair out. "Sorry, guess I got myself lost," he said with a laugh in his voice. Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred saw the door by the bar open and three people walked out. Alfred thought one of them looked familiar, but he couldn't quite see clearly, and brushed it off.

The table laughed. "No worries, Al, that's what happens to 'most ever'body that come here for the first time."

Alfred smiled. "Figures. This place ain't nothing like my folks' ranch back home."

"No, no, that's for sure."

One of them clapped Alfred on the back and called, "Hey, lady, give this boy somethin' light!" He looked back at Alfred with an amused grin. "Don't want ya passing out before yer second sip."

Alfred frowned jokingly, and shouted above the din, "Don't look down on me! Who said I can't handle a drink or two? Ma'm, give me what he's having!" He turned to see the brunette bartender walk over with an amused grin on her face.

"You boys don't know when to quit, do you?" she asked, as she set the glass down in front of Alfred. "You can call me Eliza."

"Howdy, Eliza," Alfred's friend said, nodding to her. Alfred nodded at her and eyed the drink warily. He wasn't fond of liquor, having tried it a few times throughout the years, but never really understood the appeal of it to men. He never quite got used to the bitterness of the drinks.

"You're not British, are you?" The words were out before they even crossed Alfred's mind.

"Oh? What makes you think that?" Eliza watched the liquid as it flowed out, making sure it didn't spill over.

"Your . . . voice." Alfred looked up at the brunette, her hair pulled out of her face by a white kerchief. Pain flashed across her eyes so briefly that Alfred thought he had imagined it.

"Yes, I'm not from here. I came from . . . Hungary." She hesitated in giving her answer, and Alfred knew there was much more to the story than she let on. Returning to her previous natural, cheerful demeanor, Eliza said, "Well, gentlemen, I must tend to my other customers. Just call me over when you need anything."

"What was that, Alfred?"

"Huh? It just slipped out, I guess. Nothing to it."

The men accepted his explanation, and went back to their conversation.

They talked, they drank, they talked some more, and they drank even more. All they chatted about were nothing important, just exaggerated tales of what they had seen, each story growing more bombastic than the previous in the men's drunken, tacit competition. Alfred sat, drank his bourbon, laughed, and stayed out of the heart of the conversation. His mind was off elsewhere, a big jumble of thoughts that he couldn't sort out.

He didn't notice the first whirs that came from the night. Everyone in the pub continued on like normal, but Alfred's brows furrowed as he tuned out the chatter and tried to hear the sounds for certain.

The table grew quiet as they saw Alfred's concentrated expression, and one of the pilots asked, "What's wrong, Alfred?"

He opened his eyes slightly and was about to answer when the definite blast of bombs echoed through their ears. The pub fell silent in shock, and the ground trembled lightly. It wasn't dropped here . . . farther off.

Alfred jumped out of his chair, followed by the other Americans, but the British stayed seated. They were calm, and acted as if nothing was happening. As if they weren't being bombed at the moment.

"Why aren't you guys looking for shelter?" Alfred asked irritably, looking around him.

Eliza glanced at him, while Francis and Arthur took another sip of their drink. Arthur's fingers wrapped a little too tightly around the glass.

"Don't you care!?" Alfred shouted.

His flight mate placed a hand on his shoulder.

"We've been through this one too many times already, boy," Eliza sighed. "If we ran for the shelters for every little shake, then that would be all that we did these days."

Alfred stared at her, his eyes hard and fists clenched. He could do something. They could do something. He couldn't just sit here when he knew that people were dying in the next city.

"Besides," Francis pitched in, "it's not that close to here. We have to trust the men stationed in that area."

Alfred glared. The ground shook underneath him again and he stumbled to find purchase. Planes whirred by, the deafening high-pitched note held for a few painful seconds, followed by the crash and rumblings of dropping bombs. Alfred straightened himself, and swept his eyes across the pub with anger, shock, and disbelief. He spun around towards the door. A few of the pilots hesitated, then followed, while a few others remained in their position, not knowing what to do in such a situation.

"Lad, stay where you are."

Charged with anger, Alfred continued walking, even though he knew he was being addressed.

"I said, stop," Arthur set his glass down harshly, pushing himself off the stool. He grabbed his hat and stepped forward, calm and in control of himself.

Alfred finally halted, refusing to look back. "What do you want?" The man had no reason to stop him, not when they didn't even care enough themselves.

"I want you to calm the bloody hell down." Arthur stopped close behind Alfred, his voice cold and demanding.

Alfred turned around, his face and stance defiant. He met Arthur's commanding, unwavering eyes, inches from his own. Alfred could feel the heavy tension in the room weighing down on his shoulders. But he was not backing down.

"Yeah? And then what?" Alfred dared to lean closer to the Brit, challenging him. Alfred was not in the wrong. He was only trying to save them, for fuck's sake!

"Damn Yankee," Arthur cursed in a whisper. "Do you think we don't care? Do you think we're _fine _with this?"

Alfred's words choked in his mouth. He could only glare back, using his slight height advantage as leverage. But really, it made no difference.

"Do you think we're _fine _with letting them bomb our cities and not being able to do anything about it?" Arthur took a step forward, leaning most of his body weight onto that leg. "Do you think we don't feel _anything about it?"_

"Then why aren't you doing anything?" Alfred bit out.

Arthur's eyes flared, his gaze even more intense than before. "Don't come in here acting like you know everything," he gritted in a hushed tone. The whole pub was watching, straining to hear every word coming out of Arthur's mouth. A chill ran down Alfred's spine.

"Don't act like you're the hero when you don't know what we've been through these past three years." Arthur's voiced dropped low again, and Alfred could feel himself tense. This man exuded danger. "You are in no place to tell us what to do."

Alfred stepped back to look clearly into Arthur's eyes. Despite what Arthur said, Alfred was obstinate and refused to be told otherwise. He was fighting for justice. He was fighting for freedom. He was not wrong. "I might not have been here when the war started, but I'm here now. I'm here fighting. So I will do what I believe in. I will fight for what's right, no matter what."

Alfred stared right back at Arthur in his stubborn way, refusing to let Arthur's words affect him.

Arthur remained silent, his eyes piercing through Alfred.

* * *

_To be continued..._

* * *

_._

_._

_A/N: I apologize for the mess, once again!_

_Additionally, is anyone interested in being an editor/beta?_


End file.
